


I found me a hopeless case (I resolve to love)

by queenofchildren



Series: I resolve to love [2]
Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Already Married, F/M, Fluff and Smut, In-Canon, Revelations, Rosaline defending Benvolio, plus Verona's usual bullshit, super unsubtle weather imagery, surprisingly happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 09:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11438094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: When Benvolio is sent on a dangerous mission, Rosaline realises that she hates the thought of losing him even more than she thought she hated marrying him. Because at some point over the months they've been married, she fell in love with her Montague husband - and it's time for him to know.(Connected to "I'll fall for you soon enough", but can be read alone.)





	I found me a hopeless case (I resolve to love)

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same timeline as "I'll fall for you soon enough", but you don't need to have read that one to understand it. You can if you want to see Rosaline get a beautiful house though.

****Rosaline got married, as her liege decreed. She became a Montague, ran a Montague's household, and shared in a Montague's daily meals and various concerns.

And just when her Montague husband had begun to grow on her, the powers that had forced them together decided to rip them apart again.

Escalus announced it during a private audience just before another feast with the nobles of Verona, with no one else in attendance but Benvolio and their uncles. Rosaline was not invited, but Benvolio told her about it in rough strokes when they met up in the great hall's antechamber before the feast.

Her husband had taken to reporting from his meetings, asking for her opinion on the things that were discussed and decided there, and Rosaline found that she liked knowing the goings-on at the palace, in the palazzos and guildhalls around town. In fact, Rosaline had more of a mind for it than Benvolio, who'd like nothing more than to escape to his statues and churches and leave the running of the city and its businesses to others - one of many surprising ways in which they had turned out to complement each other.

Benvolio revealed what Escalus had asked of him with a resigned expression that suggested he had already accepted it, and the sight sent a hot flash of anger through her.

Rosaline had long since realised how little her husband valued himself; poisoned by his uncle's cutting words and uncaring actions. But the thing that Benvolio could not see and Lord Montague would not admit was that they were wrong: The man who had so reluctantly replaced Romeo as Montague heir, and had been resented by the Montague patriarch ever since for simply daring to survive where his son had not, was a better man than either of the heads of this city's great houses – gentle and intelligent, and much more invested in actual peace for the s city than many others claimed to be.

He did not deserve _this_.

“They have asked you to do _what_?” A few heads nearby began to turn at her exclamation, and Rosaline quickly pasted a vapid smile on her face – she was quite done with having people gossip about her marriage.

“Prince Escalus wants to send an envoi to Venice, to try and make some trade agreements in the hope of preventing outright war. He has asked me to be part of it.”

“To spy on them, no doubt.”

“Officially, I will be going as a member of the richest merchant family in Verona. A trade agreement with House Montague is nothing to scoff at – and perhaps something to quench their thirst for war and riches.”

“And if it will not be quenched, they have a valuable hostage right in their hands.”

“Not that valuable, I wager. At least not to my Lord uncle, let alone the prince.”

“The Venetians don't know that.”

Which, she realised even as she said it, put him doubly in danger: Benvolio risked being captured as a hostage should their relations with Venice sour while he was there, and was then likely to be abandoned by both his liege lord and patriarch, instead of rescued or ransomed back.

Hidden in the folds of her dress, Rosaline balled her fists in anger. It was only the heat that made her react so strongly to the request, she told herself, and it could very well be true. Verona had been groaning under exceptionally high temperatures for weeks now, with dire consequences: the river ran too low to carry many of the heavy merchant ships, the crops around the city threatened to dry out in the fields and make them even weaker while their enemies prepared for attack, and tensions within the just recently pacified city were running high once again. Rosaline's temper, while by no means uncharacteristic, was quicker to awaken than ever, and the mere thought of the injustice wrought upon her and her husband made it spike now.

But before she could try and find an outlet for her anger, or retreat to gather her wits about her once more, a bell rang to indicate the beginning of the festivities, and two footmen pushed open the door to the palace's feast hall.

Benvolio's hand slipped into hers, cool to the touch and enough to calm her down at least a little bit. He wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed it reassuringly, and Rosaline squeezed back without even a conscious decision to do so. It was a fairly new thing between them, this kind of comfort, and Rosaline marveled at how easily his soothing little gesture had its intended effect.

“Nothing will happen to me,” he said, low and warm, as they walked into the hall and took their seats.

“No, it will not.”

Benvolio seemed satisfied with her answer, her apparent faith in him, and Rosaline did not clarify what she actually meant: He was not going to be in danger because she was not going to let them do this to him.

***

 

Rosaline had to wait until well after dinner for the opportunity to present itself, but eventually, she managed to draw the Prince's attention.

Apparently anticipating her mood, Escalus made polite inquiries as he discreetly pulled them to a darker corner of the throne room, stowing her out of sight and sound of the other guests just before her indignation burst out of her.

"Why are you trying to get my husband killed?", she hissed, forgetting all necessary deference to her opponent's status in her ire.

"I am not doing any such thing." Escalus sounded innocently surprised by the accusation, but she imagined that there was a hint of guilt tingeing his voice.

"Venice is a dangerous place these days for any citizen of Verona, let alone the heir of its richest merchant family. You must know that. So why send him, of all people?"

Escalus schooled his features into an expression of patient suffering, then took a deep breath, no doubt to present her with an array of perfectly good reasons for his decision.

Rosaline was not in the mood to hear any of them.

“You forced me to marry the man. And just when I am beginning to find the thought of growing old with him bearable, you take him away again. Do you hate me so much? Or is there someone else that needs marrying for your schemes, and you are freeing me up for them?”

“Neither of these is even remotely true!” Escalus looked truly appalled, as he always did when she accused him of making cruel decisions – but he still  _made_ them, and in the end, that was what counted no matter his reasons.

“Do you hate  _him_ then, for getting to keep what  _you_ wanted? Because he never asked for it.”

Her words were harsh and perhaps a little crass, but she wanted to remind him that this was what he had done: passed her on like some possession of his.

“My request for your husband to travel to Venice has nothing to do with anything of the sort. It is a political decision, which I am well within my rights to make as the ruler of this city.  _Your_ ruler.”

“That you are. But your political decisions seem all too often at odds with my happiness.”

“Verona is at the brink of war! Your  _happiness_ cannot be a concern of mine.”

Rosaline felt sickened: To hear such words from the mouth of a man who had once claimed to love her was truly disquieting. If he ever had loved her, should not her happiness be his most important concern?

And yet, where such a thought would have devastated her not too long ago, now she only felt the quiet echo of a pain that had passed, the wound healed over under someone else's care. The softness on her face when her eyes sought out that someone else across the room must have given away her thoughts, for Escalus' expression hardened.

“Besides, I thought you despised the man. Has that changed so soon?”

“ _Soon_? Benvolio and I have been married for months now. Did you expect me to hate him until my dying day?"

He had no answer at the ready, as Rosaline expected. He could not very well answer truthfully: That jealousy would have him imagine she could never love another man after him.

And yet, she did. At some point over the past months, Rosaline's very much unwanted husband had gone from being "that Montague" to being a man worth sharing her life with. She had begun to accept and even enjoy that he was the first person she saw when she woke up, and the one she was most eager to speak to in the evenings when various concerns and commitments had kept them apart during the day.

Of course, all of these were considerations that, while necessary, she had no time for in this critical moment, and thus she pushed them to the back of her mind to think of what to reply to the Prince. Telling him what she had only just begun to form in her head seemed wrong, somehow: Surely the first person to learn that she had somehow fallen in love with a Montague should be that same Montague – she owed him that.

So Rosaline kept her thoughts to herself, schooled her expression into one of calm obedience, and replied: “Benvolio is my husband. I implore you, do not send him into danger as you intend to.”

Escalus had become very proficient at concealing his emotions since he had first taken his father's throne, but in this moment, Rosaline glimpsed a hint of irritation: She was showing an uncharacteristic vulnerability of emotion just to save another man - but she would not reveal the true extent of that same emotion to him, the man who used to know her every secret back when they were young.

But his feelings were no longer any of her concern, Rosaline reminded herself – he had made sure of that himself.

"My plan is formed," Escalus said with cold finality, "and your husband will play his assigned part in it. You will simply have to do as plenty of wives of Verona have done before you, and pray for his safe return. Two days from now, my envoi makes for Venice."

He left her like that, to go and speak to someone more important and less contrary no doubt, but Rosaline did not try and hold him back. She was standing as if struck by lightning as the realisation forced by Escalus' question finally sunk in:

She really _did_ love her husband.

***

 

The thought kept busy in her head all evening and long into another sweltering night. It had been the first time she had admitted anything like it to herself, and she wondered if it should change things between her husband and her. Over the course of their marriage, they had become comfortable around each other - but for the first time, Rosaline felt that the current, complacent state of their marriage was as much of a sham as their false exhibits of young love had been during the time of their betrothal. After all, their marriage had yet to be consummated, and their treatment of each other resembled friends more than lovers. In fact, they had shared no more than three kisses since they had been betrothed:

First, she had kissed him, some weeks before their wedding, when he had shown her their beautiful new home and promised that within its walls she need never fear those among his family who had hurt hers. She had initiated the kiss then, overcome with gratitude and hope, and had thought that perhaps there might be something to be found here.

The second time had been at their wedding, where it had fallen to him to lean closer, lift her veil and press his lips to hers, for every young lady knew it would be unbecoming to seem too eager, even on one's wedding day.

The third kiss had been hers once more, born out of impulsive spite when, some time into their marriage, there was still no sign of a Montague heir and Rosaline heard Benvolio's uncle berate and belittle him about not being able to satisfy his wife. She had sauntered over not much later, soft-footed and smiling, and had delivered a kiss to her husband's lips that should leave no doubt in any onlooker's mind that she was a very satisfied wife indeed. Benvolio had congratulated her on the well-executed little masquerade later, but had apparently been convinced that it had been for show indeed - unaware that a part of her had wondered what it would be like to kiss him like this and mean it, in the privacy of their bedroom rather than under Verona's watchful eyes. But he had never made an attempt to steal another kiss of the kind, either because he had no desire to or because he wanted to stay true to the promise he had made her on their wedding night: That he would never lay a hand on her, and that she would never have to lie in her own bed and fear unwanted advances.

He had stayed true to his promise, had shielded her from his uncle's increasingly urgent questions about the state of her health and the likelihood of celebrating a baptism soon, and she had never asked him to consummate their marriage. It would have felt like giving in, like surrendering that last little thing she had held back of herself, and the fact that he seemed to understand was just one more reason why she trusted and respected him as she did now.

They had found a different way to be around each other instead: reassuring touches to arms and backs, the occasional swift brush of lips across a cheek in greeting or goodbye, and the rare mornings they woke up tangled in each other and knew that one of them must have been ripped from troubled sleep in the middle of the night.

It was a good way to live, one not devoid of comfort and companionship. And yet she had wondered sometimes, during idle moments and sleepless nights, if perhaps there could not be something else to be found between the two of them - something more. And just when she had, by gradual procession, reached a place from which she might begin to slowly approach and explore that "something more", she was about to run out of time to do so.

The realisation filled her once more with searing anger. Would she never be done setting aside her own happiness for the sake of Verona?

It certainly seemed that way.

***

 

Her reflections left Rosaline in an ill mood all throughout the next day, irritable and distracted. The heat of the last weeks had not only increased, but had attired a humid quality that made the very air around them oppressive. Much like the rest of the city, it seemed that Rosaline was only waiting with baited breath for something to happen, and by the time she entered their bedroom in the evening to find Benvolio packing odds and ends into a leather satchel, she was a powder keg ready to go off at the slightest spark.

That spark, it seemed, was the sight of an open travelling trunk at the foot of the bed, filled with freshly laundered and pressed clothes which the maids must have prepared - on her husband's orders, it seemed, for Rosaline had ordered nothing of the sort.

"You really are going to Venice then."

"The Prince has commanded me to."

Again that same calm defeat he had shown the evening before, after being ordered to essentially offer his life to his enemy on a silver platter. Again, it succeeded in making her abandon all attempts at rational discourse in favour of heated argument.

"And if the Prince commanded you to set yourself on fire, you should do it too?"

"That is hardly the same."

"Will you never stand up for yourself then? Will you let them treat you like this until your last breath?"

She knew the accusation was unjust; knew his uncle had tried his best to threaten, belittle and beat all defiance out of him, and had still not succeeded entirely. As she had gleaned from their conversations as they grew longer and more familiar over time, Benvolio had found his own small ways to stand up to the tyrant who was supposed to be his caretaker: by drinking and whoring, by insisting, though unsuccessfully, to marry for love, and most recently by demanding he and Rosaline be granted a home of their own away from the Montague family seat.

His compliance with the Prince's new order, she knew, was less of a sign of cowardice and more the rational understanding that he had no means to oppose his ruler. But Rosaline was sure that part of it was also due to the fact that he had been taught that his own life was only valuable so far as it could be of use to others, and some part of him had begun to believe so himself.

So when he failed to reply and defend himself, it enraged her even more.

"So I am to be stuck with a spineless coward of a husband, who rolls over on his back like a dog defeated when someone asks him to lay down his life," she spat out, and now she finally did get a reaction out of him, as he whirled around and advanced on her a few steps.

"I'm nothing of the sort. But I am smart enough to know when to hold my tongue and do as my liege lord says. We cannot all be old sweethearts of the Prince, allowed to speak our minds without reproach."

She heard the bitter sting in his words, and wondered if he still thought her in love with the prince – if the thought bothered him.

"And I already did. I told him what I thought of his decision. I begged him not to send you away.”

There was a flicker of surprise on his face. But anger won out, of the same helpless kind she was feeling no doubt.

“And did your sweet words move the prince?"

There was no need to answer the question – he already knew she had failed, or they would not be having this conversation. Shame took her in its hot, hard grip: twice now her husband had protected her, even before it had been his duty to do so. And the one time she had the chance to repay him, she failed.

Still, her anger at herself found a target outside her own actions, and turned once more against the man before her, so stubbornly refusing to let himself be saved.

“You know as well as I that by the very nature of my sex I am unlikely to be taken seriously by any of them. But you could _fight_....”

He cut her off.

“Fight whom, the Prince? I'd be put to the sword as a traitor, and you'd be wearing mourning black before I ever set foot into Venice.” Fire flashed in his eyes. “And why would you even mind? Should not my death or imprisonment solve all your problems? You could live as you please, with no one to answer to, just as you always wanted. So why even _try..._ -”

He did not get to finish the sentence.

So enraged was Rosaline with her husband at this point that she knew she'd have to put an end to this kind of talk, by any means necessary.

She chose the one least likely to result in bodily harm: She kissed him.

It was quick and a little too hard, an attack more than an expression of affection, but it did serve it's purpose: He fell quiet, completely stunned by her unexpected approach. But he did not push her away, and she used his startled silence to make her message clear as soon as she had drawn back:

"I  _would_ mind losing you."

And she would, she knew now, for she had since last night found a thousand little things that she would miss if he was sent away, perhaps never to return: the way he still called her “Capulet” in private sometimes, and how it felt like an acknowledgment, a reassurance that she had not lost her entire self when they had taken away her name and given her his. The little quips he made, sharp when he wanted to conceal some other feeling, outrageously silly when he wanted to make her laugh.

She would miss sitting in the garden with him on sunny afternoons, that beautiful garden he had gifted her before they were even wed, where she would be reading, or writing to her sister in Mantua, or doing some household sums as he sat and sculpted - a favorite pastime of his, though she would never have expected him to have a passion for the arts. "I have become the kind of boring old man I used to scoff at," he would jest, "the kind who stays home of an afternoon with his wife, and drinks in moderation."

But he would laugh and keep on carefully chipping away at a block of marble, and neither of them would mention that his days of drinking past moderation had been dark days after his companions had been ripped away. Instead, she would get up to fetch them both a glass of cool water, and handing his glass to him, would linger by his side a moment and let him show her where he had made progress at teasing soft human features from smooth, hard stone. His face would be alight with enthusiasm, and she would marvel at how far they had banished their darkness. Not entirely, no, but it came infrequently these days, sneaking into their dreams and making them sit up in bed with a gasp or a sob - but even then, they had each other just an arm's length away, a warm body to curl into and a heartbeat to lull them back to sleep.

Yes, she thought, she'd miss him, and then she said so once again, chin raised in defiance.

“I would mind,” she repeated, but for all the strength in her stance, her voice cracked at the thought.

His face, hardened with anger and shadowed by worry just a moment ago, now turned impossibly soft.

“We all have sacrifices to make for the good of our city."

"And you have  _made_ your sacrifice!"

She was referring, of course, to their marriage - even though they were both reasonably content with it now, she remembered well that his resistance had been just as staunch as hers.

The anger may have gone out of him once more, but she had yet to see the defiance she had hoped to inspire. She had still to make him see that he was easily worth ten of the city's noble lords.

But before she could appeal to his fighter's side once more, he lifted a hand and cupped the side of her face; a cradle for her to rest her cheek in when her anger turned soft as well.

"It turned out not to be such a sacrifice in the end."

Something fluttered in her chest at his words, and it was only once she felt it that Rosaline understood that she too had been in need of some reassurance - and that perhaps she might find it now.

“You are not terribly unhappy then?”

In response to her timid question, he laughed softly, a sound that made her throat tighten.

"No, not at all.”

“Neither am I.”

The statement was so inadequate to what she was feeling, and yet it was enough to make his face light up, in a smile she was sure not even the most talented of artists could recreate in stone.

It was strange, Rosaline found: Last night, the true extent of her feelings had been at the tip of her tongue, ready to be wielded as a weapon against the Prince. Now, she found it difficult to even form the words in her head – although now, she knew it was all the more important that they were heard.

If anyone needed to be told they were loved, it was him.

So she laid her hand on top of his where it cradled her face and turned her head to press a soft kiss into his palm.

She had closed her eyes to fortify herself, but all it took was to hear his startled little gasp and another stab of guilt ran through her. He should not be this surprised to find her approaching him with tenderness, and she vowed to herself in that moment to make it such a frequent occurrence that eventually, the idea of being loved would become commonplace to him, rather than a startling novelty.

When she opened her eyes again, they found his without delay or hesitation.

“I find I have come to love you, over time."

He let out another small laugh, one of delight rather than amusement – although amusement was lacing his voice as well when he spoke:

"And here I thought you never would."

A triumphant smirk flashed across his face, the kind that usually made her roll her eyes in a  _most_ unladylike manner. But today, she could only muster mild reproach for his cockiness.

"Don't gloat, husband. It is unbecoming.”

Again he laughed, a sound so carefree and light she had yet to make herself familiar with it - though she would, she vowed to herself, even if it required baring her usually so well-guarded heart again and again.

"What would you have me do then?”

"I would have you speak your mind as well, so we can both know where we stand."

The smile on his face faded a little, not extinguished altogether, but turned quieter so as not to drown out his words.

"You say you have come to love me, over time?" It was a rhetorical question, but she nodded anyway – she had only just decided to tell him as often as possible what he meant to her. She might as well start now. "Well, I hardly needed any time at all."

It took her a moment to understand the meaning of his words. Then she gasped as their full implication made itself clear to her, and before her eyes rose the ghosts of things that could have been: Innocent touches that could have lingered and turned into something else, to gain some hidden meaning known only to the two of them, a coded language for them to speak in the dark and the quiet.

Instead, they had lived quietly side by side, and had never attempted to create such a language for themselves.

And now more than ever, she felt that she wanted to know if they were capable of finding this new way to speak to each other – to cease their usual friendly conversation, and write stories into each others' skin with their hands and lips instead. She wanted to tell him all she could not say with words in this moment, so that he might know that he was valued, and cherished, and loved as a good husband should be. She wanted... - 

She  _wanted_.

And mirroring his earlier gesture, she slid a hand along his cheek to curl it around the back of his neck and bring him closer, intending to kiss him and then keep doing so until it was no longer possible to keep count. But before she did, she paused to look into his eyes, wide and bright, and to commit to memory how their green turned almost turquoise in the soft evening light; how their black pupils widened as her other hand joined hers around his neck.

"We have lost time to make up for then,” she said, voice so husky she found it hard to believe it was hers.

By the widening of his eyes she saw he had understood; and then he moved a heartbeat before she did, pulled her flush against him with a hand on the small of her back, and stole the kiss straight from her lips.

It was a kiss that could not have been more different from the one she had given him just moments ago – and it more than confirmed his earlier words. Benvolio had claimed to have needed hardly any time to fall in love with her, and now it became more than apparent that he must have longed for some time to kiss her like this.

There was such hunger in it, such need that it made her breathless for a moment. But it took only a few quick beats of her own thundering heart for Rosaline to feel rising within her that same need he revealed, and to match it with her every move.

For as soon as she had made the decision that this was what she wanted them to be, Rosaline knew, with every fiber of her being, that it was the right decision. Whatever had kept her from breaking down this last barrier between them – pride, defiance, fear of giving someone the power to hurt her the way she had been hurt before... it was inconsequential now, when every moment might be their last.

“I want us to lie together, as husband and wife.“

“Are you sure?”, was his careful reply – words that sounded vaguely familiar, though she could not quite place them right now.

She could answer them, however.

“I am.” There could be better ways to express her intentions perhaps, poetry designed specifically to seduce with its beauty, but Rosaline had no patience for such art right now and, judging by her husband's enthusiasm, no need for it either.

"A wise choice - after all, who would want to be widowed without enjoying the pleasures of the marriage bed first?", he jested, but Rosaline was not in the mood for jesting, nor for reminders of their impending sepratation.

"No one is going to be widowed," she growled, but did not protest in the slightest at the mention of the marriage bed – in fact, that was precisely where she was resolutely steering them right now.

The back of his knees hit the bedframe first, stopping them with a jolt, and Benvolio sat back on the bed without resistance, managing, rather impressively she thought, not to let go of her for even a second.

Having once made this one bold move, it became easier to follow it up with another one: To kiss him again and straddle him where he sat on the edge of the bed, to tug and tear at his shirt until he laughed once more and pulled it off over his head. To allow herself a moment to look at him directly and purposefully instead of only stealing glances out of the corner of her eye, the way she had done the few times he had thought her asleep and foregone a retreat behind the dressing screen – and then, after it occurred to her that she might do more than look, to gently follow the path of her eyes with her hands and lips.

Benvolio had spent the afternoon sparring with some Montague men as he did several times a week, making sure to keep his skills as sharp as his blade in case he was called upon to defend his city, and now faint bruises were littering his chest. She kissed each and every one of them, delighting when the purple constellations led her to places that made him draw in a sharp breath and shiver – some more than others, she found when she pressed a kiss to a spot just underneath his ribs and he yelped and twitched away from her.

"You are ticklish," she understood, feeling a burst of awed joy at having learned this new thing about him.

"Aye, and impatient," was his confirmation, and before she could inquire into the reason for his impatience, Benvolio had gripped her waist and flipped them both over, trapping her under his body. It was such an abrupt movement that it made her shriek in a very undignified manner – but his smile and the light grip of his hands where they pinned hers to the bed assured her that it was a playful gesture, not one of dominance, and that made all the difference in allowing herself to yield to him.

And just like when he had kissed her before, she got a glimpse at just how patient he must have been in the time leading up to her revelation – and how quickly that same patience was coming to an end now. As soon as she was spread out under him, he kissed her again, his hands undoing the front-lacing of her dress with quick, determined motions. Before she knew it, her heavy brocade dress was discarded, and Rosaline sighed with relief.

She could feel the heat of his body through her shift when she pressed up against him now, adding to the heat of her own skin, but even as beads of sweat gathered on her skin, the wind that was rapidly building up outside swept over her now near-exposed body to cool her down again. But for all its efforts, even the strongest gales of the oncoming storm could not help douse the fire that Benvolio was stoking within her now, until the thrum of her blood became so loud it even drowned out the low rumble of approaching thunder.

His hands, which she had watched often enough when he sculpted to know they were capable of shaping stone to his will, were just as deft when it came to turning her every bone into molten wax. They traced her shape as if she herself was a masterpiece of the finest marble, his touch as reverent as it was maddening.

By the time those masterful hands freed her of her last piece of clothing and dipped between her legs to continue their worship, she was more than ready to let them do so. As he coaxed pleasure out of her which she had never before thought possible, his eyes never left her face, and while she thought it would have made her feel bashful to be watched like this, now it made her feel elevated, and filled with tenderness that added a pleasant ache as the pleasure built inside her, and built and built until it crashed over her to make her tremble and moan.

Of course, upon managing this feat, her husband looked altogether much too proud of himself, so Rosaline decided to try and see if she might not provoke some of the same reactions in him with her own hands.

Quickly untying his leather breeches, she slipped them off his legs to do her own exploring, her hands trembling with uncertainty. She had, after all, been taught that such forwardness would reflect badly on her virtue, and was thus likely to displease her husband. But Benvolio seemed more than pleased with her efforts, and she quite enjoyed making his self-satisfied smile turn into a blissful one and his breathing grow ragged with just a few strokes of her hand, until he groaned and stopped her movements.

With another intoxicating kiss, he rolled on top of her once more and settled in between her legs to slide his length against her, easily persuading her to go chasing after that newfound pleasure once more. And when he pushed into her to do just that, she found it was not the act of surrender she had fearfully imagined it to be – it was a completion.

***

 

By the time Rosaline became aware of anything outside of their bed again, the worst of the storm had passed, and the rain brought a rush of more-than-welcome fresh air with it.

Feeling sticky and overheated, and sure that the time for modesty was past, Rosaline simply remained sprawled out on the bed, foregoing the cover of a sheet in favor of letting the rain-fragrant air ripple cool and soothing across her heated skin as she waited for her gallopping heart to calm down.

“Well,” Rosaline said eventually, giving voice to a thought she felt sure would amuse her husband, “consummating our marriage was certainly much more pleasant than I was led to believe it would be.”

As she had hoped, Benvolio chuckled, then gently turned her chin up towards his face to bestow a lingering kiss to her waiting lips.

“I am glad to hear it. Although,” he added, voice growing slurred with sleepiness, “I'd quite like to have a word with whoever caused you to have such low expectations.”

“Or you could simply continue to exceed them,” Rosaline replied, with heat in her cheeks but mischief in her voice, and was rewarded with another sleepy chuckle.

“Did no one tell you it is dangerous to build up a man's pride like this?”

“Perhaps they did, and I intend to take advantage of it.”

“You'll hear no complaints from me.” Another soft kiss, this one to her forehead. “As long as you let me get some rest first.”

She was happy to grant his wish, as her own body was growing heavy as well, and it did not take long for Benvolio's breathing to even out as he fell asleep, sated and tired and, she dared to hope, happy.

Rosaline on the other hand took longer to find sleep, her mind and heart too full for rest. She drifted off eventually, lulled to sleep by the soothing rhythm of Benvolio's deep breaths and the gentle pattern of long-awaited rain falling outside their window.

Nonetheless, by the time morning dawned outside the window, fresh and clean and bright, and the early sun painted the spires of the Duomo pink and gold, Rosaline was already awake again – and her mind was racing once more, turning like the cogs on one of those clockwork machineries she'd seen on sketches Benvolio received out of Florence.

By the time she rose, Rosaline had made a decision.

Before Benvolio even stirred, she had sent the maids into a flurry of activity, until a second trunk was sitting outside in the hallway to be brought out to the carriage along with his. And when she finally bent over him to wake him with the softest of kisses, Rosaline was wearing a travelling dress and coat, to her husband's puzzlement.

“I am coming with you to Venice.”

 

 


End file.
